Around the Block
by WRTRD
Summary: Set in the summer between S2 and S3. Castle has broken up with Gina. Suffering from a terrible case of writer's block, he comes back to Manhattan to try to shake himself out of it. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"Call me Ishmael." Now there's an opening line for you. Why can't he write something that good? Even a third that good? Of course then it would be "Call." Okay, that's just a third of the words, not a third as good. Oh, hell. He's stuck. He's so freaking stuck. Stuck as Moby Dick would be if he were in a bathtub instead of the ocean. See, even his analogies suck, although the idea of a whale in a tub is kind of, briefly, funny. He's trying to find humor wherever he can, now that he's in week seven of writer's block.

"Call." That's not a bad line at all. But it makes him want to call Beckett—almost everything makes him want to call her—and he can't. Won't. She's with Demming, and he can't bear it. She'll be all chirpy and happy when he phones. Maybe not chirpy. He can't quite imagine a chirpy Beckett. It's not that he doesn't want her to be happy, he does. He just doesn't want her to be happy with that asshole from Robbery. Or that asshole from the FBI, Sorenson, but at least she'd had the sense to dump him.

He and Gina had lasted less than ten days together, even in his idyllic house in the Hamptons. He'd known it was a stupid idea, but he's done a lot of stupid things lately. Maybe Gina could hook up with Demming! They share the bossiness gene. But no, Demming is with Beckett.

Richard Castle is miserable. After a month and a half of failing to come up with a complete sentence, or even a sentence fragment, he'd packed up and returned to the city. He'd been confident that the noise and bustle and heat would jar something loose, but after three days he's still staring at a blank computer screen. This morning he'd had a burst of productivity when he'd reorganized all his socks by color, fiber (wool, cashmere, silk-cashmere blend, cotton, cotton with lycra), reinforced toe or non-, banded top or loose-fit. He'd briefly considered sorting the patterned pairs into subsets, but it had seemed too complicated. There are none of the usual familial distractions at home, either: Alexis is at Princeton's summer program for high schoolers and his mother is visiting friends who just built a house in Seattle, yet he still can't write a word.

"Call me Ishmael." Maybe some other great first lines in literature will inspire him. "Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins." No, no, bad choice. He can't be thinking of loins. Just the idea of Beckett's makes him squeeze his together. His eyes run over the wall of books in his office and land on Proust. Ah ha. "For a long time I went to bed early." Yeah, well, he's been doing that, early to bed, late to rise, and it hasn't stirred any creative juices. Maybe he should mull over some memorable last lines, except that would be too depressing since he hasn't produced a single opening one. Shelby Hearon springs to mind, damn her. She'd written a novel that begins "They lived happily ever after" and ends with "Once upon a time." Genius! He'd have given a lot to have come up with that. What was the name of it? He'd really liked it. Dancing, something about dancing. _Hug Dancing_ , that was it. Hug dancing. If he bumped into Beckett he'd invite her to go hug dancing, except first he'd have to kill Tom Demming.

He misses police work. He misses Beckett more, but he can't have her. Still, a little police talk would be helpful, wouldn't it? How about if he invites Espo and Ryan over? The new Halo game comes out next month, and he knows someone who can probably get it for him now. The guys couldn't turn that down, could they? Especially if it's accompanied by limitless free beer and pizza. He feels better already.

Half an hour later, buoyed by the promise that the Halo game will be at his door shortly, he texts Espo and Ryan:

"Hey, guys, I'm in town for a bit and have the new Halo. Want to come over tonight and give it a test run? Pizza and beer on me. Don't tell Beckett or she'll want me to get my butt over there and help with paperwork."

Ryan's response is almost instant: "Cool! What time?"

Esposito's is somewhat longer in coming. "You're on. I will beat your sorry ass."

He answers both texts ("Six.") ("Don't bet on it."), and orders three pizzas to be delivered at 8:30 and three six packs, one each of their respective favorites, to be delivered now. He pops some beer glasses in the freezer to chill, opens a new box of oversized, super-strong paper napkins, and puts them on the coffee table next to a small stack of dinner plates. He's almost positive that Ryan will use both a plate and a glass and that Espo will take neither.

Mister Fastidious and Macho Man arrive together and on time. Much later, as all three of them are sprawled on the sofa, Castle passes a box of pizza to Espo. "Sorry not to have the right kind for you," he says.

Espo opens the lid. "Roasted peppers and anchovies? That's numero uno with me, man."

"I should have ordered crow for you. Would have enjoyed seeing you eat it."

Ryan—who is indeed having a slice of marinara on a plate and a Rolling Rock in a glass—snorts, and his partner glares.

"I probably racked up a lot more hours of my misspent youth playing video games than you did, Javi," Castle says consolingly as he helps himself to a piece of mushroom pizza. "On another note, have I missed any good cases this summer?"

"Bedbugs." Espo says cheerfully.

"Bedbugs?" He recoils. "Please tell me there aren't bedbugs at the Twelfth or I swear I'll never set foot in there again."

"That a promise, bro?" He chuckles. "Nah, this guy Joe Buggy, a real skeeve, lived in a dump and had monster bedbugs."

"Buggy? His name was Buggy?"

"Swear to God, Castle," Ryan says, raising his right hand over an imaginary Bible.

"No joke," Espo continues. "So his girlfriend got bedbugs from him and then she jumped in the sack with some dude who bought her one drink too many and she gave him bedbugs. Which he then brought home to his wife. And then Buggy's next-door neighbor found him dead on his kitchen floor, sprayed all over with Raid. Can was stuffed into his mouth. And eventually we followed a trail to the wife."

"The wife of the guy in the bar who slept with the vic's girlfriend?"

"You got it. When we asked her why she did it she said, 'I had an itch and hadda scratch it'."

"Funny but disgusting," Castle says, wincing.

"It was," Ryan agrees.

"Ryan was such a girl. Took off all his clothes back at the station and sealed them in plastic and had them treated with some super heat thing."

"You weren't worried about being infested?" Castle asks in horror.

"Nah. Those little suckers wouldn't stand a chance with me. I'd scare the crap out of them and they'd run to someone else's bed."

Castle is finding no inspiration in bedbug land. "Anything else?"

"Not really. Oh, wait, yeah. Beckett went undercover as a hooker. With Demming as her pimp. You shoulda seen him in the white suit. Patent-leather shoes, manicure, whole nine yards."

Oh, God, Esposito might as well have crushed his heart with a can of Raid. He hears him talking but can't understand a word, so he just pastes on a grin, shakes his head, and adds a generic, "Demming is such a douche." He follows up with "Oh!" and jumps to his feet with his hand on his back pocket. "Sorry, there goes the Dad Alarm on my phone, which means I have to check in with Alexis. 'scuse me while I go call her. Be right back."

It's a lie in a good cause because it will keep him from clutching his already crushed heart as he listens to details of Beckett and Demming under cover. Better than under the covers, at least. Don't go there, you idiot. In the safety of his office he considers having a quick, very strong drink but instead really does phone Alexis. It's a brief conversation since she's out having ice cream with friends, but it spares him from having to lie again when he returns to the living room.

"Everything good with your daughter, Castle?" Ryan asks as Castle strolls back.

"All good, thanks. She loves her classes. She was out for ice cream with a bunch of her friends. I had to suffer through the list of quote totally amazing things unquote about the boy who sits next to her in trigonometry. And speaking of ice cream, anyone want some?"

"Yeah," Espo says. "If you got normal flavors, not any of that weird stuff you always eat."

Castle draws himself up, and then bows. "As the magnanimous victor of tonight's games, I offer you many so-called normal flavors. If you will follow me to the kitchen, I'll give you your pick. Also of toppings."

When the evening ends, Ryan gives Castle a hug. "Sorry about you and Gina."

"Thanks. I was over it ten seconds after she walked out the door. Now I only have to hear her yelling at me about deadlines, not about leaving the seat up, which by the way happened only once, although she's probably still complaining."

"I hear you," Espo says, with a fist bump.

"Appreciate your not spilling it to Beckett, guys. I'll tell her when I'm back in September. Night."

"Night."

"Night. Thanks again."

After he's finished cleaning up the kitchen and is brushing his teeth before bed, he looks in the mirror. "I been there before," he says, quoting the last line of _Huckleberry Finn_. Sighing dejectedly, he turns out the light.

In the middle of the night, Kate Beckett gets out of bed and turns off her air conditioner. A thunderstorm had brought with it a delicious drop in temperature, and she opens a window air to let in the fresh, cool air. As fresh as city air can be, anyway, especially in August. She looks out on the street, which is dark and damp. Pretty much describes her mood: dark and damp. For at least the hundredth time—way more than a hundred, but she doesn't want to admit it—since she'd watched the precinct elevator doors close on Castle and Gina, she thinks of him. Not of her, just of him. She had royally screwed up. She sighs dejectedly, knowing that she's wide awake now and there's no more sleep coming for her tonight. Time for coffee, then.

Time for coffee, even though it's only 4:30 a.m. What the hell! She's out. Shit. Okay, okay. Can you suffer caffeine deprivation in such a short amount of time? In forty-five minutes her favorite coffee place will be open and the sun will be almost up. She'll go for a run and reward herself afterwards. Done. Five minutes later, she's pounding the pavement.

Castle checks the time on his phone again. If there were any roosters around here they'd still be dozing. Why is awake at this ungodly hour? He's always been a good sleeper, but the last few days have been awful. Maybe coming back to the city was a bad idea, but he has hope. Trying to have it, anyway. Beckett and Demming. Ugh. "You know what?" he asks aloud, as if he were talking to someone else in the room. "You need to get out of here, take a walk." Yeah, take a hike. No, Demming should take a hike and let him walk with Beckett. He puts on a pair of pants and some sneakers, pockets his phone and wallet, and heads out. He's a native New Yorker. These dark, mean streets don't bother him. Besides, it's not all that dark out. Sun should be up soon.

Thank, God, there it is, Beckett tells herself. Coffee nirvana, straight ahead. Not open yet but she can take it. She can. She'll just run in place for the next five minutes and try not to claw at the door.

Huh, whadda ya know, his feet have unconsciously/subconsicously walked him straight to Beckett's favorite coffee place. It's right around the corner and he thinks he can smell the beans roasting. What the hell, he might as well go in.

She's doing jumping jacks now, and her feet are off the ground when she sees him, no more than thirty feet in front of her. It can't be, it can't. She lands with a thud and almost topples into him. "Castle?"

"Beckett?"

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." Another brilliant opening line that's depressingly not his is chasing itself round and round his brain at hyperspeed. Beckett's right in front of him, the best sight ever. She's exactly who he needs and precisely who he can't have, which makes this the worst ever, too. But, oh, she's smiling! At him! For a moment, the best eradicates the worst.

"Hey. What brings you here, Castle?" He looks so great—he's suntanned, hasn't shaved, and his hair is tousled—but also so lousy. It's not a trick of the shop's green neon sign: he's really haggard, as if he's part of a sleep-deprivation experiment.

"Getting coffee. What brings you here?"

"Same. I'm all out."

All out? All _out_? This is appalling news. If he'd stayed in town she'd have had a limitless supply of coffee. She'd never, ever have run out. But he'd run out, run off, to the Hamptons, and she'd run out of coffee. Why isn't her useless schmuck of a boyfriend watching out for her? "Can I buy you a cup? Kinda like old times." Old times? Jesus, he sounds like a bad radio show from 1937.

"That'd be nice, thanks. Look, they're opening up." Without intending too, she takes him by the elbow and propels them both inside.

"Wanna grab a booth before the place fills up, Beckett?"

"Fills up? It's five-fifteen on a Saturday morning in the middle of summer. I don't think hordes of people will be beating down the door."

"Looked like you were about to."

"Yeah, well." She scrunches up her nose.

She has no idea how adorable that is. He wants to kiss her on the nose and tell her she's cute as a bunny. Instead he says, "There could be all sorts of coffee addicts roaming the streets, raising hell."

"Fine. I'll get a booth, Castle. And I'd like a la—"

"I haven't forgotten how you like your coffee." He knows he shouldn't, but a moment later he steals a look at her retreating backside, which is encased in purple running shorts, from which emerge a pair of bare legs whose length put his mind past boggling.

"Sir? Sir? May I help you?"

Castle is faintly abashed as he turns to the barista and gives her his coffee order. "Uh, and two blueberry muffins," he adds. "Could you warm them up, please?"

"Sure."

As he walks to the booth, he watches Beckett looking out the window. He's missed that profile. Missed the way she sometimes sits with one foot flexed. Missed everything. "Breakfast is served in the Palm Lounge," he says, setting down the tray.

"Ooh, thank you." She takes the first sip of her latte, and her rapturous expression is what he hopes he'll see if he ever gets the chance to kiss her. "Palm Lounge, huh? Very swanky."

"Yeah, I think they're upgrading around here. By tomorrow there will be potted plants all over the place."

Simultaneously they run out of conversation.

"So," she says after an awkward pause.

"So."

"I'm surprised to see you in town." She picks up her spoon and puts it back. "Figured you'd be in the Hamptons twenty-four seven until September."

"You did?"

Another silence.

"Well, that was the impression I got when you left."

"Right."

"With Gina."

"Right."

"You here for Black Pawn meetings or something?" Geez, she's so forward all of a sudden. As nosy as he is, or as nosy as he used to be.

"On a weekend? Even my slave-driver ex-wife wouldn't do that."

Slave driver? Ex-wife? Not just "Gina," with his trademark chuckle? Or, with a smirk, "We can have those at home." Or in bed. No, no, no, not bed. Not not not bed. She cringes as she tries to obliterate that image.

"Is something wrong with your coffee, Beckett?" he asks, concerned. "Should I get you another?"

"No, no. It's perfect. Sorry, something just crossed my mind. It's fine." She takes another sip and smiles. "See? Delicious as always." He doesn't say anything, and she's carried the deflated conversational ball long enough. Let him pick it up. She pulls her muffin apart and shreds a large chunk of it onto her plate.

This situation is getting more uncomfortable by the noiseless second, and he finally decides to come clean, or partway clean. "Actually."

When he leaves it hanging there, she repeats it, as a question. "Actually?"

He examines his own blueberry muffin closely before raising his head. "Actually, Gina and I broke up."

"You did?" She successfully stifles an exultant cry before it leaves her traitorous lips. "Sorry to hear it, Castle."

"Nothing to be sorry about. It was stupid for us to get back together. Dunno what I was thinking."

"But you didn't want to stay out at the beach afterwards?"

"I did stay out at the beach."

What does that mean? He's sitting opposite her on a turquoise pleather banquette with an eight-inch tear that's held together with grubby, gray duct tape. It's not exactly the Hamptons. Maybe if she keeps her mouth shut he'll explain. But he doesn't, he's just staring into his cup. After a while she opens her mouth again, not to speak, but to eat her muffin. It's yummy. She's beginning to regret having shredded that chunk of it, and rolling it up into unappetizing little balls.

Still contemplating the untouched surface of his coffee, he says, "I stayed out there for weeks afterwards."

Huh? How long ago had they called it quits? "But now you're here?"

"I needed a change of scenery."

"Are you crazy? You want to be here instead of at your beach house?"

He'd run into her on the sidewalk before dawn. Maybe it's a sign. Must be. He should come clean, the rest of the way clean—at least, the part about his having writer's block. "I can't write." He clears his throat. "I'm having a lot of trouble writing."

"How much trouble?"

"A hell of a lot. A month-and-a-half worth of trouble."

"How much have you gotten done?"

"Zip."

"Zip? As in zero?"

"Not a single freaking word."

No wonder he looks so awful, although still awfully good. He must be going crazy. She tries to keep her tone light. "Nikki's left you high and dry, huh?"

"No, more like I left her high and dry."

She feels the blush almost before it begins, and it begins in a rush and continues. Her whole face must be flaming in seconds. But what he said? It's how she'd felt the last time she'd seen him, that she'd been left high and dry.

Her obvious embarrassment is his cue to change the subject. "Enough about me," he says, using a phrase that is all but foreign to him. "How's Demming? You been working on any cases together?" Let her tell him about the hooker-and-the-pimp assignment. It'll be his whipping for the day, and he won't have to indulge in any more self-flagellation until tomorrow.

"Just one. Less said about it the better."

He hopes that his relief isn't visible. He really didn't want to hear about it. "That bad?"

"We broke up, Castle, and two days later we had to go undercover. The only thing that redeemed it was that I got to smack him across the face. And I didn't fake it, either."

His blueberry muffin plummets from his hand into his full, oversized cup of coffee, which splashes dramatically right onto Beckett's collarbone. Leaning over the table, he presses his napkin onto her tee shirt. "Oh, my God, are you all right? Are you burned? I'm sorry."

"No, I'm fine. Coffee was only lukewarm."

"But your shirt. I'll buy you a new one."

"It's an old running shirt, there's no need."

"At least let me wash it for you."

"Here? Now?" She raises one eyebrow and he almost swoons. He hasn't witnessed that in almost two months. "What you won't do to see in my underwear, Castle."

"Oh, I'm holding out for something more than that, Beckett. Or less."

That's all it takes to restore the balance, to send them back to the easy flirting and teasing, the mock insults they'd gotten so good at exchanging before everything had gone south at Memorial Day.

"You know," he adds, "I never liked Demming."

"No kidding, Castle? Worst-kept secret ever."

"I admit," he shrugs. "He may not have brought out the best in me."

"Yeah, well, you might not have brought out the best in him, either."

Castle rearranges the packets of sugar in the little ceramic box between the salt and pepper shakers. "Why'd you slap him? If I may be so bold."

He's his old nosy self again, but the question still takes her aback. "Sorry, but that was between him and me."

"Really? Not even going to give me a hint?"

She could give him a lot more than a hint; she could tell him outright, but she won't. When she and Demming were undercover, 48 hours after she'd told him that it was over, he went on a diatribe against Castle; the least objectionable things he called him were a pretty-boy amateur and an entitled asshole. "I know you have a thing for him, Kate. I can't believe someone as smart as you falls for his crap. He's only sticking around until you sleep with him and then it's slam, bam, thank you ma'am. Or did he already do that? That why he took off with his ex?" That's when she'd slapped him. And she's not sorry. She raises one eyebrow again, pretty sure of the effect it has on him. "Gina ever slap you, Castle?"

He snorts. "God, no. She'd be afraid of breaking a nail. Although—"

She waits for him to finish; when he doesn't, she prods. "Although?"

"Nothing."

"I bet I know what you were going to say." She picks up her cup and is surprised to find it empty.

"Bet you don't."

"You were going to say, 'Although she thinks nothing of breaking my balls'."

He opens his mouth, then shuts it.

"I'm right, aren't I? If I'm right you have to buy me another coffee."

He stares at her, stands up, and leaves the table.

Oh, shit. Has she gone a step too far? He jokes about Gina, but he must still be feeling raw. And he can't write. Dammit, dammit, dammit. She covers her face with her hands. A moment later she smells coffee, opens her eyes, and sees Castle slipping back onto the banquette.

"Here," he says, passing her a latte with a smiley face drawn on top. "Thanks for making me laugh, Beckett. First time in weeks."

"You're welcome." Thank you, God. "I've kind of, uh, needed a laugh or two myself."

He runs his hands through his hair, which makes it messier and even cuter. She wants to grab him and kiss him, but that's not going to happen. Certainly not here. Definitely not. She picks up the cup and takes a long drink while he rearranges the sugar packets again. Something's up.

"So, I was thinking."

"Mmm?"

"Today's the last day of July."

"Yeah." What's he getting at?

"How about if I come back to work on Monday?"

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you for getting the new year off to a happy start for me with your good cheer for this story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"A story has no beginning or end; arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead." For the first time in weeks, he thinks about an opening line from a book he loves without sliding into a black pit of despair. He may not be Graham Greene, but it feels possible that he might still be able to write. When he'd asked Beckett if he could come back to work on Monday she'd been draining the latte he'd just brought her. She'd tilted it away from her mouth, given him a half smile, and said yes. And then her half smile had turned into a whole one and he'd known, with unshakable confidence, that it was the moment of experience from which he was and is going to look ahead.

It's Monday morning, August second, and while he shaves he goes over the rest of that coffee-shop conversation for the however-manyeth time.

 _"_ _It's okay if I come back?"_

 _"_ _Of course it is."_

 _Her eyes are very bright, and the color keeps changing. He almost comments but thinks better of it._

 _"_ _And since you've been gone for two months," she continues, "there's a big, big backlog of paperwork you could tackle. You might find inspiration in there."_

 _She's leaning on "inspiration." It's deliberate. And now she's licking a tiny bit of foam from her upper lip. He could keel over right here. "Something to help you around the block, Castle."_

 _"_ _The only thing I want to go around the block with is you, Beckett."_

 _"_ _Oh, so I'm a thing now?" She pulls two sugar packets from the middle of the box. "I was referring to your writer's block, you know." She tosses the sugar at him._

 _"_ _Hey, I just organized those and now you've messed them up." One of the packets had landed on top of his head and it's still there. She reaches across the table and takes it out, then smoothes his hair with her hand._

 _"_ _Well, at least your hair's organized now." She scoots to the end of her banquette and stands up. "Thanks for breakfast, Castle. I gotta run. See you Monday."_

 _Once she's out the door, he puts his hand on top of his head, where her hand had been, and feels the heat._

He squints into the mirror. Scientifically it's not possible, but 48 hours later he can sense the ghost of her fingers, two nails grazing his scalp. It had been a half-second of wild eroticism, the closest thing to sex he'd had since three days before Gina left, and better than any actual sex he'd had with her. He nicks himself with the razor. Ow. He wipes off the tiny drop of blood on his chin and turns his overheated mind to what to wear on his first day back at the precinct.

Beckett steps into the elevator at work. No one else is there, thank God. She blushes slightly as she admits to herself that she had deliberately bought this new shirt on Saturday, and is deliberately wearing it this morning because it lets the lacy outline of the top of her bra show. Geez. Scientifically it's not possible, but two days after she'd unexpectedly had coffee with Castle she can still feel his hair against her fingertips, feel his reaction when her nails had grazed his scalp. It had felt like sex. She grabs onto the elevator rail and shivers, despite the temperature. By the time the doors open on her floor, she's completely composed. Externally. She'll have to work on the internal part before Castle shows up.

"Hey, guys," she says to her team as she drops her bag into her desk drawer and snaps it shut with her knee. "You'll never believe who I ran into over the weekend."

Two faces look up at her in exactly the same way; two voices ask "Who?" at exactly the same time.

"Castle. On the sidewalk when I was out for a run. We had coffee"—she hopes her tone of manufactured casualness is convincing—"and he's coming back a month early."

"Really?" Again in unison.

"Yup. Today."

"Sounds good," Ryan says.

"Especially if he brings us something to eat," Espo says. "The snacks around here have been seriously crappy lately."

That gets him a Beckett glare. "Good to know that you appreciate Castle for his culinary contributions, Javi, rather than his actual work."

"Just sayin'. And if he ever quits on us, he'd better be leaving the coffee machine behind."

"So, Beckett. Castle say why he's not spending the rest of the summer in the Hamptons?" Ryan asks. "Gotta be crazy to come here in August of your own free will."

She's suddenly anxious. She should have thought this through before saying anything. He didn't exactly tell her in confidence, but it's personal. The break up, the writer's block. It's not hers to pass along—not that Castle has ever observed any personal boundaries when it comes to other people, but still. Before she can respond, a voice makes her head snap around.

"Morning, Detectives." It's her favorite writer, with a bakery box in one hand and a cardboard carrier holding two coffees in the other.

"Hey, Castle." That's Beckett.

"Hi, Castle." That's Ryan.

"Glad to see you with pastries, bro." And that's Espo.

"Beckett just told us you were back, but I can't figure why you chose this"—Ryan waves his arm around the bullpen—"over the beach."

The boys are behind her and can't see her face when she mouths, "I didn't tell why. I promise."

"You know me, guys. I have a taste for the low life, and it was sadly missing in the Hamptons."

"You callin' us low lifes?"

"No, Esposito, I'm calling the people we drag in here low lifes. Anyway, I was bored with writing. Plus, surprise!, Gina and I didn't last long. Never get back together with an ex, especially if you owe her part of a manuscript."

Beckett makes a show of checking her watch. "You came in so early, too. It's not even eight."

"I couldn't stay away another minute, Beckett. I've really missed." He stops dramatically. "My chair," he finishes, as he drops into the well-worn seat. "Do I smell a fresh body?" he asks hopefully, looking towards the murder board.

"Only fresh turnovers, and whatever else you have in there," Beckett says, pointing to the box. "Sorry to disappoint you, but we haven't caught a case since last Wednesday, and we closed it on Friday morning."

"I live in hope. Here," he grins at her, "your latte."

"Thanks," she murmurs just before her phone rings. "Beckett. Mm. Mm hmm. Hmm. Right. Address?" She writes a note.

How could he have forgotten how sexy her "hmm" is? He wonders what it would be like to have her say hmm against his lips or below his ear or—

"Castle!"

"What?"

"I said, 'You got your wish'."

"My wish?" Which one, which unprintable one? Which of the the ones he's just beginning to allow himself to have about her and which have escalated since Saturday?

"Body drop. Literally. A man was pushed off the subway platform at Union Square and dropped right in front of the oncoming train. Whoever did it got away."

"Oooh, letter or number?"

"Letter."

"I hope it was a Q train, not an R or the N or the L."

Beckett sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "I'll probably regret asking this, but why do you want it to be the Q?"

"Because," he says, as if patiently explaining the alphabet to a preschooler, "it's a much more interesting letter than the others. The crime will make witnesses queasy. Quite queasy. They might be quaking, or quivering, or have qualms about using that line again. And when we catch the person who did it, we'll throw him or her into the quod."

"Castle?"

"Yes?"

"Quit it. And you may quote me. Let's go."

God, he loves her. Really.

By 9:30 he's regretting having wished for a new murder. A subway platform in New York City at rush hour in August is a vile place, smelly and hot; the tracks are immeasurably worse. They're filthy and dangerous, littered with paper cups, newspapers, beer and soda cans, squashed candy bars, pieces of bagels, the occasional cell phone and the odd sneaker, many repulsive and unidentifiable objects—though he does, to his dismay, identify at least one condom—and of course rats. The tracks are rodent Disneyland. They probably have their own rides down here. He can hear them scrabbling around, worries about seeing them bare their vicious, yellow teeth at him. Or worse, sink those vicious, yellow teeth into his ankles. "Are we almost done here, Beckett?"

"Yes, you big baby. You don't hear Perlmutter complaining, do you?"

"Well, this is kind of Perlmutter's natural habitat, isn't it? I mean, he's such a weasel. Like a rat."

"Weasels aren't rodents, Castle. I'm surprised you don't know that."

"My taxonomical knowledge is perhaps lacking in some areas."

"Right. Okay, Mister Taxonomy, we can go."

"Can I stop at home and take a shower?"

"No."

"Okay."

Once they're out in the relatively fresh air of 14th Street and Broadway, Beckett looks sideways at him. "Sorry you didn't stay in the Hamptons now?"

"Believe it or not, no. I missed this."

"You did, huh?"

When he sees that Ryan and Espo are out of earshot, almost half a block ahead where their car is parked, he slows down and says softly, "I missed you."

She doesn't reply, and he's beating himself up as they turn left and he trudges a step or two behind. Why had he said anything? They're almost at her car and he's dreading the excruciating ride to the Twelfth. She opens her door, but before getting in she knocks lightly on the roof. "Castle?" He looks at her looking at him. "I missed you, too."

He all but bounces in his seat on the way back as they talk about what mass transit surveillance cameras might be able to show them. Union Square is an enormous station, with many different trains running through it, most north-south but some east-west. They connect the Manhattan station to ones in every borough except Richmond, aka Staten Island, so if their perp stayed underground he could be almost anywhere in the city by now.

As it turns out, he didn't stay underground, but at least a dozen cameras captured his image, which includes a distinctive and repellant tattoo on his neck. He's either so stupid or so audacious—or both—that he chooses to sit down for an early, heart-imperiling lunch (grilled cheese and bacon sandwich, curly fries with mayo, a chocolate milkshake) at a nearby diner with a customer base that's at least 70 percent cop. Two unis collar him before he's made even a dent in the fries. He grabs a handful while they're cuffing him; one gets trapped between the lock and his wrist and he tries, unsuccessfully, to eat it.

Interrogation is all but unnecessary, since Beckett, spreading an array of prints from the security cams, cracks the guy open in minutes and he signs a confession. It's not enough, though; she has to know why Alan Greenwood pushed a man to his death.

"The deceased, Frank Vincent, was your business partner?" she asks from her seat opposite Greenwood at the table.

"Yeah."

"And what exactly was, is, your business, Mister Greenwood?"

"Manufacturing."

"Mm hmm. And what do you manufacture?"

"Metrocards."

"Metrocards? You counterfeit Metrocards?"

"Not exactly."

"Tell me, how do you 'not exactly' counterfeit something? You do or you don't."

"They're not, like, totally Metrocards, you know?"

Castle is sitting next to her and can almost hear her eyes rolling. He'd forgotten how much fun this could be.

"No, I don't know. Why don't you spell it out for me."

"See, Frank's brother, he's like this genius but not okay in the head. Like Rainman. You ever see that movie? He only ever wears pajama pants and a Captain America tee shirt which stinks because he doesn't bathe. Anyway, so the brother who by the way never leaves his room except once a month when Frank takes him on the subway and they cash his disability check, one day he comes up with this gizmo that like circumwhatzit the card reader at the subway turnstile."

Castle can't help help himself. "Circumvents."

"Yeah, that's it. It's this like chip thing and you just have it like in your hand and it makes the turnstile open. It only costs seven cents to make and it works like three times before it conks out."

"I see. And did you and Frank have some kind of business disagreement?"

"I'll say. Asshole wanted more money."

"More money?"

"Yeah. We were fifty-fifty and then he says it should be sixty-forty with him the sixty. And I'm like why? And he's like because he's the brains of the operation and I'm like, no, your brother is the brains. And he says right, he'd give the ten percent from me to his brother even though the only thing he spends money on is these old video games. And I may not be a genius, but I know that if I'm getting forty and Frank's brother is getting ten, that means Frank is getting fifty, right? I did the math and checked it. It comes to a hundred."

"I see. So did Frank agree?"

"No. Said he didn't need me at all even though I'm the one who found the guy who makes the thing. Said if I kept complaining he'd go for seventy-thirty. And I said no fucking way. Excuse my French. That's weird, right? Cause I knew this French girl once and she said fucking isn't a French word. Anyways, he finally cut me off so I decided to follow him to the subway. Push him off the platform. That's what you call just desert."

"Just desserts." Castle can't help himself this time, either. "I have one question."

"Okay."

"Why the Q train?" Beckett kicks him under the table, but he doesn't care.

"It's my lucky letter, man. My lucky number is fourteen, but there's no fourteen train, so I chose the Q."

"I think we're done here, Mister Greenwood." Beckett closes her file folder wearily and waits for two officers to take Greenwood away before she leaves the room. "God, I need a drink," she mutters on the way to her desk.

"Let me buy you one."

She stops and turns to Castle. "What?"

"A drink. I heard you say you need one. What do you say? May I buy you a drink?"

"Okay, as soon as I finish this up."

An hour later they head out. In the elevator, where they're standing a decorous eighteen inches apart, Castle says, "Where would you like to go?"

She leans her head against the wall and closes her eyes. "Any place where there are no cops."

"How about my place? The only cop there will be you."

"Okay," she says, and opens her eyes.

TBC

 **A/N** Thank you to all the followers, favoriters, and reviewers, both those who sign in those who don't.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"Some real things have happened lately." Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, Joan Didion, he thinks, for an opening line that describes his life. Some real things have definitely happened lately, moving from bad to good. Great, even. Definitely great now that Beckett is in his life again. Not just again but new. New in a new way, because a window, a door, has opened a crack and he sees all kinds of hope. Hope, especially, that she'll let him in. She's coming to his house for a drink. Maybe he can get her to stay for dinner.

"Let's go in my car," he says as they walk through the precinct lobby. "That way if you have one too many I'll pour you into a cab and you'll get home safely."

"The only thing you'll be pouring is a drink, Castle. One for you, and one for me."

She sounds cranky, but she doesn't look it.

"Still, my car is right out here and and the spring in the passenger seat of yours was jabbing me in the butt to and from Union Square today. The passenger seat in my car is perfect."

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Fine." That spring better not have done any damage to his butt, his perfect ass that she'd admired in particular this morning when he'd bent over and jumped down onto the subway tracks. Quite by chance, she'd been standing right behind him. She hadn't looked deliberately. It had been unavoidable. "We'll take yours." It's true, his passenger seat is perfect: buttery leather, multiple adjustments for height and angle. It's so comfortable that she relaxes into it, and her mind wanders. Maybe his own seat is like that, buttery soft, adjustable for different, uh, angles. Thank, God, they're here. She needs to get her mind on other things. As they pull into the garage, she remembers how much she'd loved this aspect of staying in the loft after her apartment had been incinerated. No looking for or fighting over a space in the street. Just turn off the engine, walk a few steps to the elevator, and presto, you're home. She's not interested in money, but the in-building garage? A nice perk for the rich.

Once they're in the loft, she goes to the powder room to wash her hands—and covertly freshen her make-up a little—and he goes to the kitchen. He considers carefully what bottle of wine to open and finally settles on a Beaulieu Vineyard Georges de Latour Cabernet Sauvignon. It's incredibly good, but not in a league with, say, his best Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He doesn't want to overdo it on their first date—first date?—with a $300-plus bottle. This one is $135, definitely a good starter. Oh, no drinking on an empty stomach: they need something to eat. He quickly puts some roasted almonds in a bowl, gets two kinds of cheese from the fridge and puts them on a plate with a bunch of grapes, and fills out the tray with a basket of crackers and two glasses. That should do it. He has put everything on the coffee table in the living room when she emerges, looking a little different. More relaxed but more, something. Ah, makeup. She added mascara and pink lipstick. One advantage of having a teenage daughter is that he notices things like this.

"Is someone else coming over?" she asks as she approaches the sofa.

"What? No." Absolutely not. Not a soul is gatecrashing this impromptu non-date. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, there are only two glasses, but there's enough food for at least ten people."

"Oh, please," he flaps his hand at the tray. "It's just a snack. Nibbles."

"You must be quite the nibbler, then." Shit, she said that?

"So I've been told."

Oh, what the hell. "I'm a pretty good nibbler myself," she says, biting hard into a plump green grape and making sure the juice runs down her chin. She plops down somewhere near the middle of the long sofa, and tucks one foot under her, wishing that she had the nerve to tell him that he can nibble on her, anytime.

He wants to say that she can nibble on him, anytime, but instead he pours the wine through an aerator—he doesn't want to wait for it to breathe—and gives her a glass. He does the same for himself, then takes a near-but-not-too-near-her seat and raises his glass. "Cheers."

"Cheers," she replies, touching the rim of his glass with hers. "Welcome back, Castle."

"Thank you. Welcome back here."

She takes a sip; the wine is phenomenal. She takes another sip and looks slowly around the living room. "I never thanked you."

"For what?" He sounds genuinely surprised.

"For this. Your loft. For taking me in last winter after my place blew up."

"You thanked me."

"Not adequately. I think I was still an emotional wreck. But thank you. Thank you for making me feel at home when I didn't have one of my own. For cooking for me, making sure I didn't do something stupid."

"You? Stupid? I doubt it. When did you ever do anything stupid?"

"Oh, so many times. Beginning at sixteen, when I pierced my—." She's drinking the wine too quickly, especially since she had no lunch. Or breakfast, unless you count a piece of icing and a raisin that fell off one of the pastries that Castle had brought this morning.

"Pierced what? What? Pierced what?" He's dancing while seated.

"Forget it."

"C'mon, you have to tell."

"No. Never."

Now he sits still, and looks directly at her. "Is it, they, uh, do you still have the piercing?"

"No." No, she doesn't, but piercing? His blue eyes are very, very piercing, and they're so very, very close to her. She can see every one of his eyelashes. She has something on her mind besides his eyelashes, and she needs to talk about it and not look at his eyelashes. At least not yet. She straightens up and has another sip of wine. And another. She feels terrible about Castle's writer's block, and she wants him to know it, but she doesn't know how to approach it. Lightly? Seriously? Both? She chooses the first.

"That guy today, Greenwood?"

"Piece of work."

"Exactly. But he got me thinking."

"I'd say thinking is not his long suit, but go ahead."

"If that idiot didn't inspire you, give you a jumping-off point for writing, inspire you to write, I don't know who will."

You will, he thinks, with the way your mind works, and with your lacy bra showing through your blouse. "I wish I'd written down everything he said. It was priceless."

"I can tell you what he said."

"Yeah, but it's like all the, like, details, Beckett. That's what I wish I could remember."

She looks at him over the rim of her glass. "I do."

"You do?"

"Yup. Wanna test me?"

"Really?"

"Really."

What exactly does she mean? "Um, okay, the part where he was talking about doing the math."

She swallows a bit of wine, and closes her eyes. About thirty seconds later she begins. " 'We were fifty-fifty and then he says it should be sixty-forty with him the sixty. And I'm like why? And he's like because he's the brains of the operation and I'm like, no, your brother is the brains. And he says right, he'd give the ten percent from me to his brother even though the only thing he spends money on is these old video games. And I may not be a genius, but I know that if I'm getting forty and Frank's brother is getting ten, that means Frank is getting fifty, right? I did the math and checked it. It comes to a hundred'." She opens her eyes. "How'd I do?" He's staring at her. She has some more wine, which she needs after that recitation. He's still staring. "Castle? You're gawping."

"Oh, my God, Beckett." He drags both hands down his face. "You have perfect recall. Unbelievable."

"Not really."

"Sounded like it to me."

"When I was a freshman in college and already knew I wanted to go to law school, I decided to see if I could learn to do that. By paying really, really close attention to what was being said. I kind of tricked my mind into it. It took a while, but I did it."

"So you remember what some sleaze told you when you had him in the box in two thousand eight?"

"No. It doesn't work that way. I mean, I have a very good memory, but the perfect recall lasts for only a few hours, usually. But it's good for catching people out in a lie."

"Kind of like the chip Greenwood told us about."

"Exactly. 'It works three times before it like conks out.' Or in my case three hours. Four, tops."

He's staring again. "Holy shit. Excuse my French."

"Shit isn't a French word." She winks at him.

She winked at him. She freaking winked at him. "I need some more wine," he says, hoisting the empty bottle. "What about you?"

"Sure. End of the day. Can't hurt."

He's made his mind up before he's taken two steps to the kitchen: it's time to break out that Châteauneuf-du-Pape. He stands at the counter, letting the wine breath for a few minutes, and runs over and over what she'd just told him. Is it a secret? How had he not known?

When he goes back to the living room, he sees that she's taken off both her shoes. That's good, a good sign. She's relaxed. She's good with being here. "May I ask you something?"

"You seldom ask permission, but sure."

"Does anyone else know you can do that?"

"No." She puts her hand up. "Please don't tell. Okay?"

"Why? It's an astonishing skill. Art."

"It's just a tool. I dunno, just, I don't want people knowing, all right? Especially the boys. If you'd seen your expression when I told you, you'd understand. I don't want to be a freak show."

"Then I'm honored that you told me."

"And if you give this little trick to Nikki, I will kick your ass to the farthest reaches of Queens and leave it there. Now give me some of that wine, please. You're clutching that bottle like it's your girlfriend."

"I promise you, that's not how I clutch a girlfriend." Which you could find out one day soon, please, please, please. He fills her glass and then his. "There. And speaking of kicking ass, bottom's up."

"Bottom's up." Her expression changes as she drinks. She stops and looks in wonder at her glass. "What is this? This isn't the same wine."

"A discerning palate. You're right."

She takes another sip and rolls it around in her mouth. "This is the best thing I've ever tasted. Wow."

"My favorite. Just to say thank you for sharing your perfect-recall secret with me."

"Might have to share some more secrets with you then, Castle," she says, and nudges his shoe with her bare foot.

He already regrets not having shed his socks and shoes the minute he came in the door. "I'll remember that. I don't have perfect recall, but I'll remember that." They sit quietly and companionably for a bit before he stretches out his legs and says, "You know what Greenwood reminded me of?"

"What?"

"How much I love watching you get confessions out of people."

"He was easy. A rookie beat cop could have done it."

"But not the afterwards stuff. Why he did it. That was vintage Beckett."

"There's not usually anything fun about confessions."

"I know, but there are times. Like the stuff you extract from people who aren't the murderers, but abetted them or something. Are instrumental. Remember Jacey Goldberg? Last year?"

"The woman who had every part of her body lifted. Inside and out."

"When you asked her about her alibi, she said she was watching the news with her husband. Watched it on three channels."

"Yeah."

"You asked her if she usually watched the news so much, and she said, 'I have a nose for news, Detective.' And you said, 'Quite the nose, it would seem, Mrs. Goldberg. Is that why you had rhinoplasty three times? To refine this nose for the news?' I thought I'd choke to death and never hear the end of the story.

"Okay, You're right. That was funny." She finishes the wine that's in her glass and peers inside. "You know what else is funny?"

He doesn't, but his gut tells him he might like what she's about to say. "What?"

"This wine."

"Funny? Funny? You're calling a th—." He bites his tongue. No way he's telling her it's a $320 bottle or she'll walk out. "I've heard it called a lot of things, but not that."

"It makes me feel funny. Not sick funny, fizzy funny. I like being fizzy."

"Is that a confession?"

"No, but I could confess something else if you pour me another glass. Of fizziness. Fizzy, fizz."

TBC

 **A/N** Have a great weekend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me, thought Moses Herzog." Richard Castle is very much all right with being out of his mind at the moment, too, as he considers what Kate Beckett just said. And if an opening line from a novel pops into your head, he thinks, why not one by a Nobel Prize-winner? He's feeling more than a little fizzy himself. Giddy, wacky, over the moon, loony, gaga, balmy, enraptured, ensorcelled. She might confess something to him? He might confess something to her.

"Allow me," he says, as he pours the rich, red, silky wine.

"You sound like a waiter." She's just this side of giggling. "Are you waiting on me?"

Yes, he's waiting on her—waiting on and for her. He's been waiting for this for a long time, waiting to see her so happy, and so happy sitting next to him. "I am." He tilts the bottle slightly. "May I join you in a glass?"

"Have to be a big glass to get us both in there. Big as your bathtub." Now she's giggling at her dopey joke, and giggling moprhs into outright laughing as she falls over sideways on the sofa. "Is your bathtub shaped like a wineglass?" More laughing.

"No, just basic bathtub shape. But it is big."

"Of course it is. Everything about you is big."

She smacks him on the thigh and he's transported to another realm where he wins the Nobel Prize, just like Saul Bellow, except Saul Bellow never had Kate Beckett as a muse and certainly never had her hand on his thigh. It's an out-of-body-experience, but he needs to return to his body now, right now, while the touch of her hand on his leg is not just a ghost. "Are you drunk, Beckett?"

"Noooo. I'm never drunk. Tipsy, maybe. Now I'm tizzy. Tipsy and fizzy, see? But I'm not in a tizzy because that would mean I'm worried and I'm not worried." She straightens up, jumps to her feet, and twirls around. "You know what I am? I'm fizzy and funny and fine! You know that song, Castle?"

"I do. It's 'I Feel Pretty' from _West Side Story_. You know what, Maria?"

"M' name's not Maria, it's Kate. Short for Katherine, only I'm not short." She raises her arms over her head. "I'm tall like you."

Oh, boy, she's tipsier, tizzier, than he'd realized, and it's up to him to do something about it. Much as he's longing to kiss her, he's not doing it in these circumstances. He does a rapid calculation of her caloric intake today: almost zero. He has to get real food into her. "Yes, you are. And since we're both tall and we didn't have much lunch"—correction, she had no lunch—"we need to eat something, okay?" He visualizes what's in his fridge and makes a plan. "Come with me, tall Kate," he says, taking one of her hands. "I'm going to make us some dinner."

"Okay, but I'm bringing my wine."

"That's fine. It'll be good what what I'm cooking."

He steers her to the kitchen, which is not entirely without incident as she's dancing and singing "I feel fizzy and funny and fine" again, loudly. After making sure that she's safely seated at the counter, he grabs a container from the fridge, grateful that he'd made a batch of Bolognese sauce yesterday morning, and sets it aside for the microwave. He brings a pot of water to a boil and dumps half a box of pasta into it. "There. We can eat in about eight minutes, okay? Want to help me make some salad?"

"What should I do?" she asks, getting off the stool and rounding the counter to stand next to him.

Since there's no way he's trusting her with a knife or peeler, he suggests, "How about washing the lettuce?"

"In your big bathtub?" She apparently finds this hilarious, since she's laughing as hard as she had been earlier.

"No, I think right here is good. You can use the sprayer and then the salad spinner."

It goes well until she decides to burst into song again and use the sprayer as a microphone.

"I feel pretty." She squirts water, which mists in the air and descends onto the countertop.

"Oh so pretty." Squirt. This time the spray lands on her pants.

He engulfs her hand with his. "Very good. But no more spraying, okay? I think everything is clean now."

"I love that song. I used to sing it all the time when I was a kid. About a million, zillion, quintillion times."

He pushes the sprayer back into the faucet. "You must have been so cute."

"No. No, no, no. I wasn't cute. I had buck teeth." She points to her mouth. "And I was so skinny." She makes a face and slaps her palm against her chest. "And no boobs. I had no boobs." And then she's sunny. "But now I do! See? I have boobs!"

"Right," he says, instructing his eyes to remain north of her neck. "I think the pasta's almost done. Want to sit down?"

"Do you think I'm pretty, Castle?"

Oh, shit, this is not what she should be asking. "Yes, I do." He gives her a firm but gentle nudge towards the stool. "Dinner's ready." As quickly as possible he puts a large plate of pasta and sauce in front of her. "Would you like some cheese?"

"Yes, please. Say cheese, Castle!"

"Cheese." He grates Parmesan over her meal and his, and sits down opposite her.

"This is pretty pasta. Look!" She holds up her fork. "It's a little bow tie!"

"Right. I hope you'll like it."

"You wear a bow tie sometimes."

"Once in a blue moon, I do."

She leans across the counter, almost able to touch the bow-tie pasta to his shirt collar. "You had one on with your tuxedo when we went jewel-thief dancing last year."

"Yup, right again." He takes a sizable bite of his pasta in hopes that she'll follow his lead.

"Was there a blue moon that night? Do you 'member if there was? We should have looked up at the sky."

"Next time I wear one, we will."

"Do you really think I'm pretty?"

He may have to force feed her, or at least confiscate her wine. "Yes."

"Really?"

"I think you're beautiful, but you need to eat your dinner before it gets cold." And before he overheats. Finally she digs in. Really digs in.

"That was delicious," she says much later, wiping her mouth but unknowingly missing a dab of tomato sauce about an inch to the left of her mouth.

It's the first time he's seen her finish a meal. "Thank you. So's your salad."

"I only added water."

"Sounds like a recipe for instant salad: just add water and stir."

"I think I kind of sprayed, not stirred, didn't I?" Her brow is wrinkled, and the sauce is still on her cheek.

"Came out perfectly, though." He picks up the plates. "How about dessert?"

"You made dessert?"

"Much as I'd like to say that I churned the ice cream, no. But I have a ton of flavors, and toppings. What would you like?"

She's twinkling, another thing he'd have called impossible before this evening. "Surprise me."

"You're going to trust me with this?"

"Yup. But no wine on top. Not good on ice cream."

"No wine. Check." Thank God. Despite having carte blanche in the ice cream department, he's restrained in his choice: butter pecan with hot butterscotch syrup, whipped cream, and marshmallows, since in his considered opinion ice cream served without marshmallows is a culinary sin.

"Castle! I can't eat this."

"You just said I should surprise you. And there's nothing outlandish about it. As my desserts go, it's practically demure."

"I mean the amount." She waves her spoon helplessly above the bowl. "I can't eat all this. It's too big."

"Are you or are you not," he says with a sniff, "the woman who said, this very evening, that everything about me is big?"

Her cheeks color, but it's not the wine that's at fault: he had discreetly removed their glasses and the bottle half an hour ago, when he served the pasta. If she's blushing a little now, and she is, it's because she's sobering up and knows exactly what she'd said.

"Fine," she says, sounding the tiniest bit indignant.

"I'm not going to force you to finish it, Beckett." He takes a spoonful and swallows, making sure his low-pitched moan of satisfaction is loud enough for her to hear.

"Mmmmrghh," she says after her initial bite. "This is incredible."

"It's the hand-made miniature marshmallows that do it. Crowning glory. "

He knows that her eyebrow is shooting up before it happens. "Hand-made? You have freaking hand-made marshmallows?"

"It's a very small indulgence," he answers primly.

She coughs so hard that one of the vaunted marshmallows lands in the middle of the counter. "Sorry," she mumbles. Several minutes later, her spoon clatters in the bottom of the bowl. "I can't believe I ate all that."

"I'm flattered."

"I'm fat. One more marshmallow and I'd have to take my pants off."

"I don't suppose I could interest you in another marshmallow?"

"Nope."

He doesn't want her to go, pants or no pants. And even though the effects of the wine are wearing off, he doesn't want to do anything that she might regret when she really is sober. There will be time. Inspiration arrives just then. "Beckett? How about a movie?"

"Isn't it getting kind of late to go to a movie?"

"Not here. We can watch it here. I have thousands of DVDs. Plus an idea."

"An idea, huh?"

" _West Side Story_. I haven't seen it in years and I bet you haven't either. Greatest opening of any musical ever, and shot right here in New York."

"Do I get to sing along?"

"I'll be crushed if you don't."

She does sing along, but not to "I Feel Pretty." She makes it through only the Jets' song and "Something's Coming" before she conks out, a victim of the perfect trifecta: not enough sleep, several glasses of superb wine, and an enormous meal. Disappointed not to have heard her rendition of "Gee, Officer Krupke" and all the verses of "I Feel Pretty," he's also ecstatic. Her head has slipped onto his shoulder, and he very lightly presses his lips to her hair and breathes in the scent of her for minute after delectable minute. He wishes that he could draw; he'd sketch her as she is now, beautiful, serene, and still.

While he's watching her something begins to bubble up in him, almost undetectable at first, but building. It's hope. It's confidence. It's an idea. He has to write, right now, but he can't—not without moving her, and he's completely unwilling to do that. His left arm is around her back and her shoulder, but his right is free, and he manages to use it to extract his phone from his pocket. Laboriously, he starts writing a note about Nikki and Rook, and then another and another and another, and he emails each one to himself. Her head is heavy but he's never felt so light.

The combination of her shifting against him and a change in the volume of the movie redirects him to the screen. He watches the last fifteen minutes, grateful that she's still asleep because he's spared the indignity of her seeing him sob through "Somewhere." Immediately after that he has the odd but thrilling sensation of her eyelashes tickling his collarbone; she lifts her head and blinks her eyes slowly.

"It's over?" She sees the credits roll. "Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You were exhausted, Kate. I couldn't."

"But we were at the movies," she says, pressing down on the last word as if it were the most important thing in the world.

"We can watch it another time."

She's leaning back and giving him every bit of her attention, the way she must when she wants to ensure perfect recall, but her eyes also reflect something else. Disappointment? Hurt?

"But it was our first movie, Castle. Our _first_. Didn't you want to make out with me?"

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"What's it going to be then, eh?" His life bears no resemblance to _A Clockwork Orange_ , but that first line is pounding him in the head. "What's it going to be then, eh?" Should he advance or retreat? Kiss her or not kiss her? Laugh or cry? Sit here like a lump or —? She'd slept for close to two hours and she'd been sobering up when she'd nodded off, but is she completely sober now? Would a truly clear-headed Beckett ask, "Didn't you want to make out with me?" He's not sure, but he hopes so. Oh, God, he hopes so.

He's not going to answer her question, not yet. Instead, he's ignoring it and posing one of his own. "Would you like some coffee?" he asks brightly as he pushes himself off the sofa. If she has a mug of strong coffee now she'll be stone-cold sober very quickly. Stone-cold sober but so, so hot. And then he can kiss her, can't he? He's halfway to the kitchen before she can react.

"What?"

He turns his head towards her while he opens the freezer door. "Coffee? I want to try out these new beans that I bought. They're supposed to be amazing." He makes sure that the bag isn't in her sight lines when he takes it out, since it's three-quarters empty and though the beans really are amazing he's been using the brand for at least four months. They'll be new to Beckett at least. The grinder is very loud; if she's saying anything, he won't, can't, hear her. While the coffeemaker is doing its job, he rattles china unnecessarily and bangs the metal tray hard against the shelf. No, this is necessary: he needs both the noise and the distraction. Is she still in the living room? Wait! She's not going home, is she? He can't let her leave now. He whirls around: she's standing about ten feet away. Apparently not leaving.

"Beckett! Hi. The coffee is almost ready. Here's the vanilla!" He waves the little bottle while continuing to talk. "I haven't forgotten that indispensable item. Ah." He cocks his head slightly to the right. "Hear that? Coffee's done. I'll bring it into the living room."

"Castle. What are you doing?"

"What am I doing? You of all people must recognize coffee prep when you see it." Is she mad? She looks like she may be ticked off.

"Are you avoiding me?"

"Me? What a question. You'd welcome that, right? If I avoided you? Ha!" Weak, very weak.

"What are you really doing? Really."

Okay, she's insistent. Very, insistent. It's time for a change in tack. Tactic. But being tactful. Oh, shit, maybe he should be straightforward. Sort of straightforward. Can you be be sort of straightforward? Isn't that like being a little bit pregnant? She's put her hands on her hips. That's something she might do when she's pregnant. She would be so gorgeous pregnant, even more gorgeous than she usually is. Brain! Go elsewhere. He picks up the tray of coffee and holds it waist-high, where it serves as a shield between him and her.

"What I'm really doing is making us coffee. You love coffee."

She's glaring.

Go on, just say it. Tell her. "I'm doing it to make sure that you're sober." He walks bravely past her to the sofa. "C'mon. Let's go sit down."

She follows him, but unlike him she remains standing. "Sober?"

He looks up and pats the seat next to him. "Are you still feeling fizzy and funny and fine?"

"I missed the song, you may recall. Slept right through it, thanks to you."

"But are you still feeling fizzy?"

"From the wine?"

He wishes it was he who'd made her fizzy, but the wine did seem to have made her inclined to, well. "Right. The wine."

"I'm sober. So sober I can spell it. S-O-B-E-R."

"You sure?"

"Geez, what's next? A breathalyzer?"

"Er."

"No. No, no. Don't bother denying it, your eyes are a giveaway." Her own eyes are sparking like a tire rim that's dragging wildly across blacktop. "You actually have one, don't you? A freaking breathalyzer."

"Research. Purely for research. I'd forgotten all about it until you said that. I got it for my second, no, third, Derrick Storm book. Not even sure where it is. Storage maybe? In the basement." He points to the tray. "Coffee? I promise you'll love it."

She nods, sits down—flounces, really—next to him, and takes the mug from his hand. "I know you heard me. You have ears like a bat."

"I have nice, normal-size ears. Bat ears are huge and hideous." He doesn't want to look at her; he's sure that a death glare is in the offing.

After taking a few sips she returns her mug to the tray. "You're right, this is great coffee." She waits a few beats before continuing. "Put your mug down, Castle. Please."

He knows when it's imperative to follow instructions, and this is one of those times. "Done." He steels himself to look at her, and is surprised to find her impassive. Which is why he's utterly unprepared for her three successive lightning moves: getting onto his lap, cradling his face in her hands, and kissing him senseless. Not senseless, because all of his senses—except sight, since his eyes are closed—are fully engaged. He's almost overwhelmed by the touch, taste, and smell of her, and by the sensual sound of her as she moans into him a little. If she says she's sober, that's good enough for him, and so he kisses her back.

She's sober. She knows what not-sober feels like, and she's definitely sober. But oh, what Castle just did to her. Is this how it would always be with him? She'd never need to drink wine again, even that favorite of his, whatever it is. Because the way she feels now is impossibly better than she felt when the first buzz from that wine hit her. He's grinning at her, in an adorably goofy but incredibly sexy way. Is it possible that she looks like that to him? She touches her fingers to her lips; yes, she's grinning, and she presses her forehead against his. "Popcorn," she says, their noses almost touching.

Is she saying she's still _hungry_? "You want popcorn?"

"No. This is the first time I ever made out at the movies without popcorn."

"Do you miss it?"

"Oh, you're so much better than popcorn, Castle. Miles and miles better. Don't need popcorn."

"Do you need something else?"

"Nope. Yup."

"Yup? Yup what?"

"Yup, I need you to kiss me again."

There's more skin in this one, a lot more, as his hands slide under her shirt and hers slide inside his, but eventually they have to break the kiss.

"Does that answer your question, Beckett?" He's breathing hard.

"Which question?" She's breathing just as hard as he is.

"About whether I wanted to make out with you."

"Yes." She tightens the grip of her thighs around his his, inches closer on his lap. She's rocking against him, through her lightweight cotton pants feels him hard and harder against her, yet somehow finds whatever it takes to sing softly but urgently into his ear. She may have missed most of the movie, but she's got the song "Cool" in her, for him.

 _Boy, boy, crazy boy,  
_ _Get cool, boy!_

She rocks faster, more insistently, but she's still able to sing.

 _Got a rocket in your pocket,_

She's thrusting now.

 _Keep coolly cool, boy!_

She can't sing anymore, not now. Not with his quads beneath her, his incredible long, strong quads sheathed in denim, right where she wants them. She reaches for his mouth again, and there they are again, tongue on tongue, and his arms are around her back, drawing her all the way in. Her breasts are flattened against his chest, and she feels heat through his shirt, her nipples taut, but it's his thigh, his thigh that's pushing up against her, that he's angling against her, pushing just so, that's making her wild. Her breath is ragged, her pulse is frantic, and rational thought is in tatters as she feels her physical and emotional dam burst.

How long she has been collapsed against him? She has no idea, but long enough that the sweat that had been on her face has evaporated. His arms are still banded around her, and his lips are moving against her hair.

"Wow," he says. "Wow. That was—. Jesus, Beckett, I've never had that happen to me at the movies."

"Me, either."

He pushes her hair back, and tucks one stray strand behind her ear. "You know. You know, when I asked you here for a drink it wasn't for this."

She freezes. "You're. You're not. Are you."

He kisses her again, but lightly. "Shh. I just never thought this would happen,not today. I always hoped. Always hoped some day. But today, our first day back together at work and now this. And I think I just felt—."

What? What did he feel? Except. He must feel how wet she is against his leg. "Oops," she mumbles.

"Oops?"

"My, um." Her mouth is just below his clavicle, at the opening of his shirt. "I just had a huge orgasm while I was riding your thigh and. You know. Wet spot."

"That's not what I meant," he says, rubbing his palm down her back. "That's not oops, anyway, that's spectacular. Exciting. What I think i just felt was my writer's block crumbling."

She tilts her head back to look at him. His eyes. His beautiful eyes. "You did, huh? Did it crumble all over me?"

"Want me to check?"

"Yes, please."

"Would that be a full-body check?"

"It would. And I should check you, too, Castle. Can't have you walking around the city with bits of block crumbled all over you. People might talk."

"Not planning on going outside any time soon."

"You're not?"

"Not a chance."

"Well, then, it'e even more important that I check you over immediately. All of you."

"Mmm. Why's that?"

" 'cause I don't want any crumbs in the bed."

TBC

 **A/N** Thanks to reviewer Maryrose1123 for reminding me of the line "Boy, boy, crazy boy," because that led me to think of the ones that follow it in the song "Cool," from _West Side Story_. Enjoy the weekend, everyone!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

 **A/N** There's an M section in this chapter. If you want to skip it, stop reading at "So, no backstroking?" and resume at "It's some time before either of them says anything."

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day." It was a cold and penetrating rain that kept Jane Eyre from taking a walk. It's pouring here, too, though it's a warm August morning, but what's keeping Richard Castle from taking a walk is what happened a few hours ago, and what's happening now. Technically, nothing is happening now, but he's not always a fan of the technical. He's lying on his back in bed; apart from the low, steady sound of the rain against the windows, and the occasional little murmur of the sleeping woman next to him, the room is silent. There's no possibility of taking a walk today because first, he may not be physically able to walk more than a few steps, and second, he has no intention of leaving this bed until he has to.

He's looking at Beckett. Kate. At Kate. He's thinking of her as Kate. If it weren't raining, it would be wonderful to take a walk with her today, but even if it were a glorious day, it would be more wonderful to stay here with her curled against his side. Hell, it is a glorious day. At six o'clock—two hours ago—she had leaned over the side of the bed, picked up her pants, and retrieved her phone from a back pocket.

"You're _calling_ someone? Never figured you for a kiss-and-teller."

"Not calling, Castle, texting." She'd stopped briefly to give him a telling kiss, then returned to her phone. "See?"

 _"_ _Sir, something's come up and I really need to take a personal day. We closed the case yesterday, as you know, and I have a lot of time banked. I'm fine, but hope you'll understand. Please let me know if I should come in."_

"Montgomery? Geez, you lied to Montgomery?"

"I didn't lie, Castle. Something did come up and I want to take today off. Don't you?" She'd nudged him with her knee. "Or are you kicking me out?"

"No way. Stay. Right here. Besides, I don't have the strength to kick right now."

She'd rolled on top of him. "You don't, huh? You have the strength for anything else? Or do I have to do all the work?" And before he'd been able to answer she'd slithered down between his legs and engulfed him. It turned out that he wasn't as tired as he'd thought. It had either been that or the rejuvenating powers of her mouth and hand. Probably that. Definitely that.

Fortunately Montgomery hadn't texted her until 6:45, by which time they'd both been in a semi-comatose state, but not so out of it that they hadn't been able to register that yes, she'd gotten the day off. Then he'd sung to her, picking up where she'd left off.

 _Don't get hot_ _,  
_ _'_ _Cause man you got  
_ _Some high times ahead.  
_ _Take it slow and Daddy-O,  
_ _You can live it up and die in bed!_

"You're hot, Castle, hot and so cool," she'd mumbled as they'd drifted off.

It's 8:00 now, and he's wide awake. She looks as though she's smiling in her sleep. He hopes so; hopes that he put the smile there. But oh, God, her mouth. How is he going to be able not to look at her mouth when they're at work? Or look at it without reacting, now that he knows what it's capable of doing? How can he look at her, any part of her, all of her, without giving himself away? Without being able to hide the large, blinking neon sign on his sleeve that says LOOK, HERE'S MY HEART. IT BELONGS TO HER. Because it does. There's not a doubt in his mind that it does, that it will. There's no going back; he doesn't want to go back. This is it. She is it. Forever.

He feels her move a little, watches her tuck one hand under her chin and rest the other on his rib cage, but she doesn't wake. Until now, he'd refused to analyze his writer's block, couldn't bear to pick it apart, but the last 24 hours have made it clear to him. He'd screwed up everything since May. Hadn't pressed his case with Kate, hadn't let her know how he really felt, and worse, had insanely ricocheted into a stupid, meaningless, non-relationship relationship with Gina. Then Gina had left and what had he done? Zero. Hadn't even texted Beckett. She had still been just Beckett then. He'd blocked out Beckett, ergo: writer's block.

"Hello, Doctor Freud? Cancel my appointment. I get it. I get it. I get why I had the worst writer's block ever. It's over now. Don't send a bill."

"Castle?" She's got one eye open, and it looks puzzled.

"Hey. You're awake."

"Don't send a bill?"

"What?"

"You just said, 'Don't send a bill.' You talking to me?"

"No, I was talking to Sigmund Freud, but I thought it was only in my head."

"He'd better not be in this bed with us, Castle. It's a big bed, but not that big."

"Just so you know, I'm not a ménage à trois kind of guy."

"Glad to hear it. Because I'm not sharing you with anyone, especially a dead psychoanalyst."

That's funny, and he should laugh, but he doesn't. He's astounded by their situation: that something he'd wanted for so long and then thought would never happen has, and so quickly. By any normal standard, there was nothing quick about it—but there's never been anything normal about them. A few days ago he'd thought that the best he could hope for was to sit in that butt-killing chair on the other side of her desk in the precinct, and to ride in the butt-killing passenger seat of her squad car, but now they're here, in his bed, together. If he's wearing his heart on the sleeve for the world, she should know it, too. He rolls onto his side so that they're eye-to-eye.

"This has been a phenomenal few hours, hasn't it?"

He looks so serious. She'd been expecting something completely different, like a joke about what Freud wore to bed. Castle's right, though. It has been a phenomenal few hours. "Yes. Yes, it has."

"I'm not just talking about the sex, although I'd be happy to talk about that later."

That's the voice she'd expected, but then he laces his fingers through hers and he's serious again.

"It wasn't just the sex. Some of it was. It was mind-bending, body-bending, life-altering sex. But it was love. Making love. Love. All-encompassing love. I look at you and I feel like my heart is going to shoot across the room." He pulls her so close to him that they're almost sharing breath. "I hope that doesn't scare you away, Kate. If it does, it does. But I had to risk telling you."

She doesn't answer right away, but she never loses eye contact. "It does scare me, Castle, but it doesn't scare me away. It scares me because no one has loved me like that before, and it scares me because that's the way I feel about you. I never imagined it, not this. Never. I didn't know that I wanted it or that I needed it, really craved it, until it happened." He looks a little out of focus suddenly, and she feels the soft pad of his thumb under her eye.

"You're crying," he whispers.

"So are you," she whispers back. "We're a hell of a pair."

"We are. A pair. We're a pair. What do you think we should do?"

"Right now?" She chuckles, and the mood shifts and expands. "All this horizontal exercise—"

"It wasn't all horizontal."

"No kidding." She chuckles again. "All this exercise made me very, very sweaty and I need to take a shower. Or a bath. Even better. Can we take a bath together in your not-shaped-like-a-glass-but-very-big tub?"

He jumps out of bed faster than he'd jumped out of the FBI van when he'd shot that jerk Donald Salt with a Taser last winter. In less than a minute the bathroom is filling with the scent of pear-and-freesia bath oil; he'd bought half a dozen bottles after she'd stayed in the loft—right after the Taser incident— and he'd found out, by chance, that it was her favorite. "Bathtime!" he shouts as he turns towards the door.

And there she is. Naked. Spectacularly naked. "Wow."

And there he is. Naked. Spectacularly naked. "Wow." She takes a few steps forward and inhales. "Is that pear-and-freesia bath oil? I can't believe it."

"I have a ton of it. Let's just say it's another example of my living in hope."

"Get in the tub, Castle. I'll give you all kinds of hope."

"Just hope?"

"Other things, too."

"Good." He takes her hand, holds it as she steps into the water, and gets in behind her.

She leans against his broad chest, and half floats over his legs. "Oh, my God, this is heaven."

"Want me to wash your back?" He nuzzles her neck.

"Not yet. I just want to lie here for a while with you."

"So, no backstroking?"

"Not yet." She settles against him and rests there for a few minutes. "Can you add a little bit of hot water, please?"

"Of course."

When the water level has risen, she turns around to face him. "There could be some stroking now," she says, and wraps her hand around him. "Mmmm, so velvety. So velvety and so hard. Do you mind that it's not your back I'm stroking?"

"Nooo. No. This is better, a million times better. Jesus, you're good at this."

"I am?"

"Oh, yes."

"I'm not doing this just for you, you know."

"I should hope not." He's a little smug, and very happy, at how quickly he reacts to her touch, and he kisses her as deeply as he can while his breathing is compromised.

"I think someone's ready," she says, moving one hand around his neck while she uses the other to guide him in place, and sinks down. "Oh, fuck, you feel incredible." She waits, simultaneously anchored and floating, and begins to circle her hips. "You feel so fantastic it should be illegal."

She's tight around him, already beginning to clench around him. He'll never take this for granted. Ever. "We're breaking the law, then? Good thing you're a cop." He's trying not to speed up, wants to make this last, this watery Eden, but with every move it gets harder. He hears himself say that, hadn't realized that he was thinking aloud again.

"Harder?" She's beginning to gasp. "What's getting harder? I don't think you can."

If that's a challenge, he'll try to meet it.

She feels him tilt his hips a fraction, and the incremental shift means that he's driving not just upward but at a slightly different angle, stroking perfectly inside and out, and her response is immediate. He's the first man to have found her A spot and she's untamed, bucking, clawing him, urging him deeper even as she spasms around him. The violence of her orgasm triggers his own, and he explodes.

It's some time before either of them says anything. "What the hell was that?" he moans.

"Paradise." She's spread across him. "Except that we're alive. Aren't you glad we were in the tub?"

"Tub's great, but I want to try this again in bed. Promise me."

"I promise. I just meant that we made a hell of a, um, mess in here."

He laughs. "Hey, are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Me, too. I'm going to make us breakfast. And then I'm going to tell you a story."

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** The only part of _Castle_ that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

"I write this sitting in the kitchen sink," he says calmly.

"Maybe it's lack of sleep, but what?" Kate asks from her perch at the counter, a mug of coffee in her hand, "I know that you can write in your head, but you're standing at the stove, not sitting in the sink."

"It's the first line of a great novel I found by accident recently. 'I write this sitting in the kitchen sink'."

She yawns loudly. "I'm sorry. You're not boring me, I promise. What's the novel?"

" _I Capture the Castle_."

"Well, that explains it," she says, and laughs. "A book with your name in the title."

"You captured me, didn't you?"

"You're such a sentimental guy, Castle."

"I am. And proud of it. Anyway," he adds, pointing a spatula at her, "I'm trying to tell you a story."

"Sorry. No more interruptions from me. Especially if you hurry up with those eggs."

"I'm moving as fast as I can. You're not the only one in this room who worked up an appetite, you know."

"Oh, I know," she says, scorching him with her eyes.

"And don't look at me like that or this breakfast will burn and I'll be incapable of speech."

"Fine. You never want me to look at you like that, then?"

"I do. Just not now." He scoops the scrambled eggs from the pan, puts them on two plates, and adds some buttered toast. "Here. Eat."

"I'm glad you get the rye bread that has caraway seeds," she says several minutes later, swallowing her last bite of toast.

"Oh, please. The kind without does not pass these lips. So, you ready for your story?"

"Mmhmm."

"It's about my writer's block. Former writer's block."

"Okay. Good."

"The worst I've ever had. Agony. I tried everything to dig my way out, and nothing worked. Word association, character observation, you name it. No alcohol and too much alcohol; gourmet dinners and junk-food binges; exercise and sloth. And the whole time? I couldn't get you out of my mind."

She slides her hand across the gap and covers his. "I'm sorry."

"This isn't on you." He shakes his head. "The thing is, having you in my mind is what's made me able to write for the last year and a half. But then the summer happened, and—" his voice trails off. "Anyway, the first line of that book."

"Of _I Capture the Castle_."

"Well, yeah, but that was only one of many. First lines, I mean. When I was at my nadir, I left the Hamptons and came back to the city. I was in my office, staring at my blank screen, and for some reason 'Call me Ishmael' floated into my mind.

"Ah, _Moby Dick_."

"None other. It depressed the hell out of me at first. I beat myself up thinking I could never write anything remotely that good. But then I decided that reading other opening lines might jar something loose for me. I had a little game where I'd try to remember some, and reward myself if I was right."

She smiles, and squeezes his fingers. "Yeah? What was your reward?"

When he finally answers, he mumbles towards the floor, and she can't make it out.

"Sorry, I couldn't hear you. What was it?"

Staring at some unspecified point beyond her shoulder, he clears his throat and repeats what he'd said. "My reward was that I let myself look at a picture of you on my phone."

He might as well have cracked open her chest with a hammer and thrown hydrochloric acid on her heart. Her hands, of their own volition, fly to her face and cover her eyes and mouth. "Don't. Oh, God. I did that to you."

"Hey, hey, it's all right now. It's fine." He tugs her hands away and folds them inside his. "It is. Look at me. It is. And you didn't do anything to me."

She's struggling to control her shaky voice. "Um, so, what other lines did you remember? Besides the whale?"

"Oh, tons. A lot of bad ones, which made me feel moderately better, and a lot of great ones. And you know when they started to work?"

She shakes her head.

"Yesterday morning when I was shaving. Before I came into the precinct. I was running through yet another enviable opening line and for the first time since I'd started that exercise, it encouraged me rather than depressed me. Not because of the line itself, but because I was going to see you again. Work with you again. Have hope again. Kind of funny when you think what it was."

His expression has completely changed; his face is suffused with something—what. Joy. He looks so full of joy. "Yeah?" She still sounds wobbly, and feels that way, too. "What was it?"

"Graham Greene. _The End of the Affair_. Weird, right? Because you and I just started." And we're never going to end, he doesn't say.

"You think that?"

Panic surges in his chest, his own personal tsunami of insecurity. "We, you, we. This, this wasn't, we weren't." He stops and tries again, and with a detectable hint of desperation. "Aren't we starting something?"

He's still so unsure? How can he be, after what's happened? Oh. Because. And so she says, very gently. "No, Castle, we started a long, long time ago, didn't we? We just didn't get going until now."

She can see the tension go out of him as he smiles at her without reservation. "Yeah," he says, on a column of breath.

"So," she says, straightening up and holding out her mug. "Is there more coffee in that pot? Because I want to hear more about these famous first lines of yours."

"Not mine," he replies. "Other people's first lines."

"I know one of yours. 'It was always the same for her when she arrived to meet the body'."

"Whoa, you know that? Word-for-word?"

"If I didn't, after all the times I've read _Heat Wave_ , I'd be pathetic. I probably know the whole first paragraph, at least."

"Really? Wait, don't do the whole thing, just the next two sentences."

She braces herself lightly on the edge of the counter and begins. " 'After she unbuckled her seat belt, after she pulled a stick pen from the rubber band on the sun visor, after her long fingers brushed her hip to feel the comfort of her service piece, what she always did was pause'." Beckett pauses, too, her head tilted to the left, her eyes closed but moving beneath the lids. " 'Not long'."

"Wow. Perfect recall."

When she opens her eyes she notes how wide his are. "No, this is different. The perfect recall I told you about lasts only for a few hours. This is memory, memory acquired from a lot of readings. Because I wanted to read it. A lot. And I want to know some of the lines you thought of."

" 'All this happened, more or less.' Vonnegut's _Slaughterhouse Five_."

"Makes sense you came up with that one, Castle. You love to work a little outside what actually happened, don't you?"

"I prefer to call that exercising my imagination."

"Tell me about _I Capture the Castle_. Why you like it."

He groans. "I was in a black hole, messing around on my computer and looking—yes, I confess, Detective—for books with Castle in the title. And there it was. The author's name is Dodie Smith, which faintly, faintly rang some bell. Turns out she was a British novelist who wrote the book _The Hundred and One Dalmatians_."

"As in the Disney movie?"

"Yup. One of my favorites—the animated one, not that horrible live-action thing—as you know. From a Cruella de Vil conversation we had at Hallowe'en. Anyway, _I Capture the Castle_ really hit me because it's narrated by a seventeen-year-old English girl who's trying to be a writer and lives with her family in a tumbledown castle. And her father, get this, is suffering from horrendous writer's block. Had a huge hit of a book and since then hasn't been able to write a word."

"You sure you're not making this up?"

"I swear." He crosses his heart with a buttery fingertip. "But there was one first line that came back and back at me. Over and over."

"But it didn't help?"

"It made me think of you."

"Oh. I guess that wasn't good."

"You want to know what it was?"

She shrugs. "I guess. Yeah. I do."

" 'Justice? You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law'."

"Whoo," she pushes the hair off her forehead and swallows hard. "Hits a little close to home."

He can see that's she's battling not to cry. "It's William Gaddis. Brilliant novel, _A Frolic of His Own_." He leans across the counter and tips her chin up. "You know why I'm telling you all this, Kate? It's so you'll know that it wasn't literature that saved me. It was you."

And that's what makes her cry.

Three months later, when there's an early-autumn chill in the air, Castle zips up his carry-on. He's flying to London to promote the British publication of his new book, _Naked Heat_. Really. Not really. Well, he's doing four signings in three cities, as well as a reading, but that's not what's on his mind. What's on his mind is another book altogether, one that was written almost 200 hundred years ago. He hasn't told Kate. Hasn't told anyone, because he can't trust anyone to keep this a secret. His phone pings; it's a text from his partner.

 _"_ _I'll be out front in five minutes."_

 _"_ _On my way."_

He waits in the lobby until he sees her car coming down Broome Street, then steps onto the sidewalk and sticks his thumb out. "Going my way?"

"I don't usually pick up hitchhikers," she says primly. "But you have a fancy suitcase, so I'll take the risk. Don't try anything. I'm armed."

"Oooo," he says, sliding into the seat next to her after tossing his bag in the back. "Sexy."

"You'd better believe it," she snaps, and accelerates into the stream of traffic.

The ride to JFK is too quick. They've barely spent a day—or a night—apart since August second. "Promise me you'll miss me," he says, when he kisses her goodbye in front of the terminal.

"I don't want you to go, Castle."

"Bet you never thought you'd say that. I'll text you when I get there." He walks towards the glass doors, turns, and waves his passport at her.

At eight the next morning, London time, he texts her from the taxi on the way to his hotel.

 _"_ _I'm here. Surprise. It's raining."_

As he tucks the phone back into his pocket, he's startled to hear it ring. "Beckett? It's three in the morning in New York. Why are you awake?"

"My feet are cold."

"Put on some fuzzy socks. I'll be home on Friday night and warm up your feet."

"Just my feet?"

"All of you. I love you."

"Love you, too. Bye."

He survives the mini tour, in which almost every hour is scheduled. He'd made sure that he had a couple of hours to himself on Thursday afternoon, though, and when the time comes he shuts himself in his hotel room. He waits for the call, which he estimates will come around four. Sure enough, at 3:53 his phone rings. He'd love to be there in person, but he doesn't want to be spotted. Anonymity is key.

"Yes, this is Richard Castle. I'm ready, thank you."

Fifteen minutes later it's over, and his heart is racing. When he gets the word, when he's assured that everything is in order, he politely thanks the woman on the other end of the line, and makes a note of what to do tomorrow. He clicks off the phone, jumps from the bed to indulge in a one-man victory dance, then brushes his hair and leaves for a publishing cocktail party.

The London _Times_ arrives with his room-service breakfast the following morning. On page five there's a story on yesterday's auction at Sotheby's: it leads with the news that an anonymous telephone bidder had paid a record price—139,250 pounds, or roughly a quarter of a million dollars—for a first edition of a certain book. "Worth every penny," Castle says, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth. He's already packed; as soon as he shaves, showers, and gets dressed he'll be on his to his last signing. After that, he's on to Sotheby's to pick up his newly-acquired, very old book, which he puts in his briefcase. No one, but no one, is carrying that but him.

In his first-class leather seat, he squirms all the way across the Atlantic and Eastern Canada. Can't keep his mind on the movies, or the bowl of macadamia nuts, or anything else. Finally, f-i-n-a-l-l-y, he's through Customs, papers cleared, and out into the cavernous, noisy hall where the driver from his car service is waiting. He'd told Kate not to come get him; it's rush hour, plus she could be working. Besides, he needs to make a couple of calls—the florist, the bakery—on the ride into Manhattan, and doesn't want her to overhear.

She wishes that she could have picked him up from the airport. It would have meant seeing him more than an hour earlier than she will now. She's known that she's in deep for quite a while, but being separated from him for the better part—the worse part—of a week has made her realize just how deep this water is. She slept on his side of the bed, with her head on his pillow. She washed her hair with his shampoo and briefly, insanely, contemplated using his after shave on her legs. Yesterday she'd been leaning back in his chair at the precinct, looking at the murder board, and Espo had said, "What the hell? You sittin' in Castle's chair? What is wrong with you?"

She hadn't even realized that she was there; that's how far gone she is. "Oh, I just thought I'd look at the case from a different angle."

A six-year-old might have believed that; her 36-year-old colleague hadn't. "Yeah. Right."

She looks at her watch. Again. Is shift over yet? She can't wait to get home. Home. Castle's loft. When had that become home? But it had.

He hears her key in the lock from the bedroom while he's buttoning his shirt; he'd had just enough time for a quick shower to rid himself of the smell of the airplane, which he hates. "Kate," he says, walking through his office; he can see her looking at the coffee table.

She hears her name, and that's it: she throws herself at him. "God, I missed you," she says, kissing him with six days' worth of longing.

"Wow," he says a minute later, her cheek pressed agains his. "Welcome home to me."

"What's all this?" she asks, stepping back an gesturing to the table where he has set a vase of roses, surrounded by cups and saucers, a tea pot, a plate of cakes, and another of scones.

"Tea. English teatime. You couldn't come with me, so we're having it here. Although the food and the flowers came from around the corner, not London. Still."

They both discover that they're ravenous, for food and for each other, and after they've eaten almost everything on the table, they race to bed. "Don't go away again," she says later, lying on top of him. "I can't take it."

"I brought you back something, though."

"More tea?"

"No, but something very English." He extends his arm so that he can open the drawer of his nightstand, and takes out the package he'd hidden there a short while ago.

"What's this?" She rolls off him and sits up against the headboard. "Feels like a book. Is it the British edition of _Naked Heat_?"

"Nope. Open it. But be careful when you tear the wrapping paper."

"I never tear the wrapping paper, Castle. You're confusing me with you." She unties the ribbon and rolls it into a tidy spool, then carefully runs her index finger under the Scotch tape. "Oh," she says, her eyes gleaming. "Oh. It's _Pride and Prejudice_. You remembered. Remembered that it's my favorite Jane Austen." She runs her hand lightly over the cover. "But this is such an old copy. Where did you find it? I'm almost afraid to open it."

"Here." He takes the book from her. "You're right. It's a very old copy. The oldest. Eighteen thirteen. This is a first edition."

She gasps. Out loud. "No! Castle, it must have been a ton of money. You shouldn't have."

"I should and I did. Do you remember our first morning together, when we talked about first lines in literature?"

"Of course I do."

"I decided it was time to talk about this." He opens the book carefully and turns to page one. " 'It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.' " He puts _Pride and Prejudice_ to one side, and takes her hand. "What do you think? Do you agree?"

She's staring at him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes bigger than he's ever seen them, but she doesn't say a word.

"Kate? Will you marry me?"

"Yes," she says. "Yes, I will." She crawls into his lap. "Yes. Yes. Yes."

 **A/N** That's a wrap. Thank you very much for reading this. I'll be back soon, I hope, with another story.


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